Mischief by Moonlight (8 page)

It was necessary, he told himself as he led the lovely Lady Denborough out in what was likely to be the last waltz of the night—even the musicians were yawning. It was necessary because he knew that every part of him was yearning for Josie. Because now that he'd tasted her lips, she'd unleashed something in him.

Touched something in him.

Pulled him deeper into a realm he must have nothing to do with.

There must be nothing further between them, even though very likely he wouldn't even be able to smile at her now without wanting to follow it up with an embrace. He'd have to stay away from her.

His pretty dancing partner made some comment about the music, and he forced himself to reply. He was in command of himself, and he simply would not be in thrall to Josie Cardworthy. Clearly, extreme measures were called for.

When he arrived home as the sun was rising and far after his customary retiring time, he didn't allow himself to seek his bed right away, but instead took up the pile of invitations on the silver salver in the foyer that he normally would have ignored, and he made himself accept every one.

Edwina loved London. Initially, she hadn't thought such a thing could be possible, but she felt suddenly so new and different, and hopeful, as she hadn't in perhaps forever. Hopeful in general, but more specifically as regarded gentlemen and the possibility of marriage with a really fine man.

Quite simply, for the first time in her life, she'd been having success, and she knew there were two main reasons for this: Maria Westin's guidance, and her friend Lady Hermione Stellan's decision that Edwina was A Find.

Lady Stellan loved nothing so much as what she called A Find, whether the new thing in question was a beautiful fabric that everyone else had overlooked or a musician who'd gone previously unappreciated. And now she insisted no woman currently in London was lovelier than Edwina, and behaved as though Edwina's age were a distinctive seasoning that added a certain indefinable quality to her beauty.

At gatherings and events, Lady Stellan introduced her to everyone and in general treated her like a prize horse. Edwina was under no illusion that her race would last forever, but it now seemed possible, as it hadn't since she'd met Mr. Perriwell, that she might secure the affections of the right sort of man. A man like Lord Mappleton, she thought with a smile as she floated out the front door of Lady Stellan's on his arm after a particularly lovely luncheon.

A most presentable gentleman in possession of a large estate in the Cotswolds, he'd treated her as though she was special from their first meeting. During luncheon today he'd seemed fascinated by the (much-edited) things she told him about her life in Upperton. She'd made certain to listen to him carefully, as Maria had advised, and to repeat back to him—rephrased—some of what he said to her. He seemed to delight in this.

He
was
a good twenty-five years older than she was, but she mustn't ask the moon.

As he escorted her now to Maria's barouche, which awaited her, he assured her he was looking forward to seeing her at a party the following day. She smiled at him in that slightly excessive way Maria had insisted looked genuine, and thought that this time she actually meant it.

She stepped into Maria's waiting barouche as though she were alighting a cloud. The summer day was very pretty, and as the open carriage rolled away from the town house under the gentle late afternoon sun, a breeze whispered against her face while a lark swooped ahead in gracious arcs. All was bliss.

Even the smells of London were growing on her, or at least, the smell of dirty cobblestones was becoming familiar. She smiled as she thought of how the foreign scents and sounds of the city had assaulted her at first. She felt like a part of London now.

They had just reached Regent Street, with its fine shops and crowds of strolling, fashionable people, when the coachman, astonishingly, began to whistle.

Since it was the middle of the afternoon and the top of the barouche was down, anyone could see her riding with this driver who was making a spectacle of himself, and she called up to him to cease at once. He seemed not to hear her and carried on whistling. A lady passing in a high perch phaeton frowned at them.

Edwina's furled parasol lay on the seat beside her, and she took it and rapped the driver on the shoulder.

He glanced back at her, and she realized he was unfamiliar. She hadn't noticed earlier, but then, why would she?

“You're not one of Mrs. Westin's coachmen,” she said. “Who are you?”

“Jack Whitby, miss. I'm doing some work on Mrs. Westin's furniture. But the coachmen have all taken sick, so I was asked to help.”

“You're a
carpenter
? Couldn't someone else have filled in for the coachman?”

“Cabinetmaker,” he corrected her, incredibly, “and no. It seems a number of the servants ate some bad custard, and they're—”

“Never mind,” she said sharply, “I get the idea.”

He turned back around and started whistling again. She rapped him on the shoulder again, and he glanced back.

“You don't need to keep hitting me, miss. You can use my name.”

Of all the cheek! As if she would be dictated to by someone like him.

“What do you mean by whistling?” she demanded.

“I don't suppose I
mean
anything by it,” he said. “I am simply enjoying this fine day.”

“Well, you may enjoy it silently. The whistling is inappropriate.”

His only reply was an eyebrow that lifted and quivered, as though in mirth. His eyes were a startling light, icy blue, his hair a deep, shiny chestnut. His boxy cheekbones held her attention longer than they should have, and she couldn't help noticing that his coat hung across his shoulders in a way that suggested a very hard frame was underneath.

It was because she was old that she was noticing what she should not, she told herself disgustedly, as though her body sensed that her fading beauty would soon make it impossible to find a husband and so was calling her attention to any virile man she encountered. She looked away.

Shortly they drew near a shop selling ladies' accoutrements, and remembering that she'd wanted to purchase a little rouge for her cheeks—she meant to use only the smallest amount, but she needed something, as there were so many dewy young debutantes about—she told the Whitby fellow to stop. He pulled to a stop near the shop and handed her down.

***

Jack watched Edwina Cardworthy make her way to the ladies' shop with a smile curling the edge of his mouth. She'd looked like an angel coming down from heaven as she'd stepped out of Lady Stellan's town house, but by the time she was beating him on the shoulder with her umbrella, the customary sharp, calculating look had come back over her beautiful face. He'd seen her about the Westin household several times in the last few days, unobserved by her, of course, since he would be invisible to a lady. But those odd glimpses had been enough to show him a complicated woman.

She had the kind of beauty that would have made his father itch to capture her as a Helen of Troy or Diana, but it would have taken all his artist's skill to penetrate behind her layers to the real woman underneath. Though if any of the Whitbys were going to inspire Edwina Cardworthy to surrender her secrets, he didn't want it to be his father.

As she approached the shop, she drew near an elderly woman who was standing there while the other pedestrians moved around her. The woman was raw-boned and sturdy, and she wore the kind of plain frock that might have suited a governess.

Miss Cardworthy, however, stopped to speak with her. Jack's eyebrows rose as, a few moments later, she escorted the older woman down the street.

By the time five minutes had elapsed, he was growing concerned that Edwina Cardworthy still hadn't returned, and he was just about to go look for her when she reappeared and went into the shop. Some minutes later she emerged with a wrapped package, and he got down and handed her up into the barouche. Her hand, slim and protected within the fine fabric of her glove, tugged at his attention.

“Any trouble with the old woman?” he asked as he flicked the reins lightly and the horses took off.

“She was only lost.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he could see her stiffening—well, stiffening even more—as if scolding herself for having spoken with him beyond what was necessary.

“Look here,” she said, “have you no deference?”

He laughed, not turning around.

“Really!” she said. “Anyone would think you fancied yourself a gentleman.”

“That I do not,” he said seriously, “though I've known my share of them. My father is a portrait painter, and many's the aristocrat who's come to his studio. I can't say I've admired any of them for their arrogance, or their talent at inheriting money.”

He smiled as an irritated silence reigned behind him for a minute while she absorbed his words.

“Is your father William Whitby, then?”

“Yes.”

“I've seen his work. It's quite good.”

“It is.”

“And you didn't wish to follow in his footsteps?”

“Cabinetmaking's an art as well.”

“I suppose,” she said. But her thoughts had clearly moved on to other things, because she said no more.

She was twice as beautiful as any woman in Town that Season, and well aware of it, but there was far more to her than the selfishness of a woman who was used to being admired. He thought of the way she'd helped the old lady, and of a conversation he'd overheard while working on a wardrobe in one of the unused guest rooms at Mrs. Westin's.

Edwina had been in the corridor with one of the maids, and as he listened it became clear she'd discovered that young Leah didn't understand the value of money and had no sense of how to make a pound. Edwina was trying to explain it in a way the girl could grasp, but poor Leah wasn't bright. Edwina persisted, though, explaining as thoroughly as a governess intent on the best effort of her pupil, and some glimmer of understanding had dawned in the girl as he listened. He'd been charmed.

He knew very well that men such as he weren't meant to converse with women such as Edwina Cardworthy. But he'd never seen why his gifts of intelligence, skill, and art shouldn't be of as much significance as the value society put on things that hadn't even been earned. He believed in who he was, and he prized directness.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You have a kind heart.”

Edwina was startled by the carpenter's compliment. Ridiculously, it made her feel warm all over, as though his words were a balm for something that had been ailing her. But this was wrong. She couldn't be having a
conversation
with this man.

“What do you mean by speaking to me so personally? You have no sense of your place,” she said, and that stopped him, as she'd meant it to, from saying anything else.

When they arrived in front of Maria's town house, he handed her down. She made certain not to look at him, but she couldn't ignore the sensation of his hand on hers. Even through the fabric of her glove she could feel the strength of his fingers and how much larger his hand was than hers. Before today, she'd never held the hand of a man who labored with his hands.

And she had no need to do so now. She pulled her hand away.

Josie had come out to meet her, and Edwina pushed away thoughts of the carpenter and leaned close to her sister to enthuse about what a successful gathering it had been and how much she'd enjoyed Mappleton's company.

Josie had seemed subdued over the last week, and Edwina wondered if it was because they hadn't seen anything of Ivorwood since the ball held by Lord and Lady Worthing. Or perhaps she was only anxious for the return of Nicholas. Edwina made a note to invite Josie for a cheering stroll in the park.

After a minute, Josie's eyes flicked over Edwina's shoulder, and Edwina turned to see that the carpenter-driver was lingering behind her for some reason.

“Excuse me, Miss Cardworthy,” he said, not sounding particularly unhappy to bother her, “you left your parasol behind.”

Her delicate cream parasol looked odd in his hands, which were tanned and nicked with little cuts. She took it quickly, glancing to see if he'd smudged it; she didn't have so very many parasols. But he'd done nothing to it, and she made herself acknowledge that though his hands obviously did much work, they were also quite clean.

She felt his eyes on her and looked up to see them laughing, as though he knew she'd expected his touch to dirty her things. She turned away from him without a word.

But she saw Josie's eyes follow him as he led the barouche away.

“An interesting man,” Josie said, “though he makes a different sort of driver.”

“Apparently he's filling in for the coachmen, who've all taken ill. But he'd better stay a carpenter, out of sight of polite people.”

“Oh, Edwina,” Josie said.

“Don't ‘Oh, Edwina' me. There are times when a lady is perfectly in her rights to judge and dislike a person, and this is one of those times. Anyway, who cares about him when we can talk about Mappleton?”

“Oh. Yes, let's do,” Josie said with a gameness Edwina knew very well was put on. Edwina was under no illusion that Josie was enchanted by Mappleton, but she didn't need her to be.

***

Josie had begun to wish she and Edwina might return to Upperton, though she wouldn't have dreamed of saying so. She knew that Edwina was having the time of her life, and she couldn't have been happier for her sister, who was currently twirling about yet another ballroom on the arms of a handsome gentleman.

But coming to the ball meant Josie would be invited to dance as well, and after what had happened with Colin four days ago, she'd decided she mustn't dance a single other dance while in London. Nor had she allowed herself to probe what had happened with him or consider what
he
might think about it—thinking too much was clearly her downfall—and she'd been nothing but glad that she hadn't seen him since then.

Avoiding dancing at a ball was proving difficult, however, since the gentlemen continued to ask, and she'd just declined another invitation when Maria appeared at her side.

“Josephine my dear, you really must give up this bizarre refusal to dance. It does you great credit that you are so fond of your fiancé no other man will do, but it is only making the gentlemen more desperate to dance with you.”

“They only look on me as a challenge, and they'll soon tire of the game.”

“Nonsense. You're a lovely unmarried young woman at a ball. It's in the natural order that you should be dancing with a gentleman.”

“Truly, I'm content to watch the dancers.”

A shrewd light came into Maria's eyes. “Have you seen Ivorwood, then, dancing with Lady Denborough? I just heard from a friend that my usually reserved nephew has been seen about town with a succession of fashionable widows, Lady Denborough among them. The word is that he's looking for a wife.”